


Called in Convocation

by avyssoseleison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blasphemy, Church Sex, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Demon Dean Winchester, Heavy-Handed Jesus Allegories, M/M, Post-Coital, Priest Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27864490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avyssoseleison/pseuds/avyssoseleison
Summary: Condemning though it is, Father Castiel can neither stop himself from falling for that dangerously seductive demon nor from wishing to save him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	Called in Convocation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FagurFiskur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FagurFiskur/gifts).



> Title taken from Sufjan Stevens' "The Ascension".
> 
> Based on this prompt by @perlukafarinn: "Prompt: priest cas, demon dean but cas is the pursuer in the relationship"

“I simply wish you would allow me to take care of you.”

The demon’s answering laugh is humorless, bordering on cruel, as it usually is. The same way his behavior is, as in this instance as well. Because instead of giving any proper thought to Castiel’s request, he turns it into a crooned proposition: “Oh baby, you know you’re always allowed to ‘take care of me’.”

His words echo hollowly in the nave, the scene of their sin. Not on the altar, but also not far enough from it to gloss over the fact that they have crept closer to it over the weeks and months, and will one day soon reach it. Which will be the last nail in the coffin, the sacrilege. Since ordained though he might be, Castiel is also a disgrace to his calling, a sinner among saints. Unlike most – even if certainly not _all_ – of his fellow priests, he has defiled the site of his rites, does so over and over again.

Just like now, during a night of full moon whose light is falling through the stained windows, bathing the still sweaty and bare bodies of both Castiel and the fallen creature by his side in its reverberation of light.

Regardless of how earnest Castiel’s words were and how much he despises the mockery the Dean has made of them, he is actually right: for instead of saving Dean’s soul or exorcising him as he should, all Castiel does is give in to the demon’s seductions time and time again, and commit the most heinous of sins right there in his own church. He could not desacralize this holy place any more beyond making those few last steps to the altar, and seeking wicked pleasure there. Even robbing the church or burning it down could not hold a candle to what he has already done, to how he has offered nothing but blasphemy at the altar of his Lord, in front of the tortured and strung-up shape of his only son, the world’s savior.

The bliss that unfortunately always comes from their encounters and that seeps through both Castiel’s body and soul, tainting both of them, abruptly falls away and is replaced by a sick feeling deep in his stomach. Although Dean is still sprawled out in front of him, his head pillowed on his own arms as he hums, his legs crossed in relaxation and engaged in a slow back and forth, and the undeniable evidence of their transgression drying between his thighs, the mere idea of touching his glistening skin or seeking pleasure in his welcoming body again suddenly sickens Castiel to the core. Concurrently, his immediately surging determination to never have him again leaves him equally as repulsed, with any words to that effect dying ashen on his tongue.

The demon stops his humming and directs his dark gaze towards Castiel as the priest gives no reply, just silently stares at him.

“What’s up?” Dean asks with a slow grin and the ease of having no one but hell to answer to. “Demon got your tongue? Or you wanna go again?” He holds up his arm and considers a non-existent watch at his wrist. “Hmm, if so, you’re in luck. Looks like I got some time before my next appointment and could squeeze in another round before I have to go and, y’know, torture some assholes and shit. The usual hell business. Work simply never stops.” Despite the blackness of his eyes, there is obvious mirth at his own joke dancing in them, and not for the first time, Castiel wishes he could simultaneously punch and kiss him.

He does neither.

“I mean it,” Castiel states instead, not deigning to acknowledge anything Dean has said in the past minute or so.

“Oh, I mean it, too. You know me, padre, I’m always good for a lil quickie or an Old Fashioned. Just say the word, and–”

“Don’t call me that,” Castiel cuts in, feeling his brow furrow in anger and deep-seated distaste. “I’ve told you countless times not to call me ‘padre’ when we’re like this, when we’re still–” he makes a sound of frustration, roughly pointing to their unambiguous forms. “Don’t mock me as a priest when our bodies meet as men, don’t...” He squeezes his eyes shut against the unbearable moonlight and the sight of his lover. “Don’t take my last claim of consecration from me.”

Enraged and ashamed, he wants to get up and go, cover the proof of his failing with his clothes, and pray for forgiveness. But all he does is keep his eyes shut and his body strung tight, hoping for the onslaught of abuse that he rightly deserves.

Which never comes.

What Castiel probably should have expected was the gentle hand suddenly cradling his face. He should have known that Dean wouldn’t let even a minute pass before he would pull him up against his chest, folding him into his warm embrace, because he always does this. Always holds Castiel like he needs him to, shushes and soothes him, and makes him feel good about himself and about _them_ , about what it is they do. He is a true seducer like this, a demon through and through, not king of the crossroads for nothing. 

So, Castiel gives into his embrace, and waits for the inevitable: for Dean’s kisses and warmly whispered deflections, for a hand between his legs, and another bout of ecstasy soon to follow. Another defeat, another sacrilege, the last assurance that he will end up rotting in Dean’s realm eventually, with the door to Heaven firmly shut before him.

What he gets instead is unexpected, though no less heady in its own way. For Dean does not delve into his seduction routine and stir their conversation in the best way he knows how. No, he tightens his grip around Castiel’s waist with no heat behind it and nuzzles his nose against his cheek, of all things, doing nothing more heathen than hug him.

Staying as he is, the demon breathes in and out deeply, puffing against Castiel’s skin. Castiel stays tense for a few minutes, bracing himself for the sickening yet deeply-craved touches, the shift into more familiar terrain, of a differently dangerous kind. Something he could repel the demon for, or maybe accept.

When nothing of the sort happens, Castiel doesn’t know what to do. There is no sudden change, no further seduction. Instead, all the demon does is breathe into the embrace and share their warmth in the now chilly air. With the heat from their desire wearing off and the sweat still clinging to their skin, it would feel unreasonable to push Dean off and away, to tear himself out of the unexpected warmth of the situation. Which is why he sinks even deeper into their embrace, exhales softly himself, and just allows himself to enjoy the unhurried sensation of Dean’s skin against his own, his scent and warmth and all.

“Just stop bothering with it,” Dean says at last, so quietly Castiel couldn’t have possibly heard, were they not as close as they are.

“Bothering with what?” Castiel asks in return as he finds his own hands holding onto Dean, digging into the soft flesh of his lover.

“Me,” Dean elaborates on a huff. “Trying to save me. Believe me, many people’ve tried before, and they all failed. I’m past the point of saving. Have been for centuries now. You should just take what you want, leave it at that.”

“I'm quite certain I’m past that point as well.”

Dean clicks his tongue. “Maybe, maybe not. If you just called your archbishop or whatever, he might come and help you. Forgive you for laying with a demon, cleanse you, banish me, all that jazz. Who knows, maybe they’ll just let it fly as so many other instances of misconduct, and you’ll get a medal or something. Either way, you could be free of sin again and just happily live the rest of your days as a good and proper priest who helps the poor, heals the sick, and walks on water.”

“I’m not Jesus,” Castiel replies, a small smile stealing onto his lips despite himself. 

“Could’ve fooled me. What with the way you tend to your flock, bring the good news, and care for lost sheep.”

Castiel has never paid attention until now, but with his palms covering Dean’s still body, he feels it, strong and steady, and maybe a bit faster than it should be: the demon’s heartbeat. The proof of a previous existence, and of a different one, now. Its fast pace being proof of Castiel’s as well.

“So you should understand why I care. Why I don’t want to ‘stop bothering’ with taking care of another lost sheep.” Castiel says, having no free hand to do air quotes, but hoping Dean will nonetheless understand him.

“Stop air quoting me, Cas,” Dean laughs into the crook of Castiel’s neck, kissing him there as though changing the topic, what with the hint of teeth between his lips. “And I’m not a sheep – I’m a _wolf,_ baby.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh in turn, tilting his head up to allow Dean greater access and to finally take their embrace to its logical conclusion. “A tamed one, perhaps.”

Castiel sees Dean’s amusement in the shake of his shoulders and the shuddering breath against his neck, but it’s the quickening rhythm beneath his palm that garners most of his attention, as it tells him that any further conversation will now be delayed, even if it is far from over. 

Because it might be that not all is lost yet, for neither of them. Neither soul nor sanctity. Dean’s own lips give reason to hope for that, as they betray the verisimilitude of his own words: no wolf could give kisses as soft and sweet and sacrilegiously sacred as he does, only a lamb.


End file.
